


Long Live the Queen

by thewriterinallofus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Frank Turner - Freeform, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Heartbreaking, Hospitals, I'm Sorry, Set in London, Sickfic, Songfic, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine isn't doing well, and hasn't got long, so she gives Grantaire some final instructions before she goes. Grantaire does as he's told and writes her a song. Based on the Frank Turner song "Long Live the Queen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I just heard the song, and this story jumped into my head. I was crying as I was writing it.  
> I don't own Les Mis or anything by Frank Turner. I am just an emotional person who loves both.  
> I am un-betaed, so I do own my own mistakes.

Grantaire sat in his studio painting, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. He was bored with this work; it was another boring commission for a rich prat who didn’t understand fine art. Laying his brush down, his thoughts drifted to Éponine, who was an inpatient at St. Bart’s. She had been for about six months.  
Les Amis had been devastated. She’d finally come into her own amongst them, and Enjolras had employed her as their public relations liaison. Éponine had proved her worth; if she wanted something, it was so. Jokingly, Jehan and Grantaire had nicknamed her “the Queen of the ABC.” Despite Enjolras’ chagrin, the moniker had stuck.  
Just then, Grantaire’s phone rang.  
He looked down and recognized Combeferre’s number. “Hello,” he answered tentatively.  
Combeferre’s voice was thick. “It’s ‘Ponine. She’s not doing well. I think…I think you need to come down here.”  
Grantaire froze. Usually, when Combeferre requested Grantaire’s presence, it was because Éponine needed cheering up. The tears in Ferre’s voice worried Grantaire. It was rare for the intellectual to cry. This had to be serious. Crap.  
“I’ll be there.”  
Stopping only to grab his sketchpad and guitar, Grantaire was out the door.

* * *

  
Grantaire was in London within an hour. He’d hopped on the next available train, his thoughts only on Éponine.  
He arrived at St. Bart’s, and began fighting his way through hospital security. “Please, I need to see Éponine Thenárdier.”  
“Are you family?”  
Grantaire growled. “I’m damn well the closest thing she has.”  
The receptionist sighed. “I’m sorry, sir. If you aren’t a blood relative, I can’t let you…”  
“He’s fine.” Combeferre and Gavroche appeared at Grantaire’s side.  
The artist immediately turned to his friend and gathered him up in his arms. “Oh, Ferre.”  
A sob escaped the taller man. “C’mon. She’s been hounding me to see you.”  
Grantaire nodded, throwing one last nasty look at the receptionist.

* * *

  
When they finally arrived at Éponine’s room, Grantaire’s heart broke. He hated seeing her hooked up to all the tubes and wires.  
“Hey, Ép.”  
She turned her head slowly to face him. “Aire! You came!” Her voice was barely above a whisper.  
Grantaire understood. Though he’d been trying to avoid thinking thusly, he realized how serious her condition was with one look at her. She didn’t have long.  
The artist walked over, perching on the edge of her bed. What could he say? He knew that he had to get her to smile. “So, did I tell you that Courf and I finally got Enjolras good and drunk?”  
Her eyebrows quirked in interest. Grantaire launched into the story, masking his sorrow as best he could.  
Éponine let him ramble for about an hour before she rolled her eyes.  
“What is it, Éponine?”  
She cleared her throat. “You’re torturing me. I haven’t had a drink or a smoke in six months.”  
Grantaire scrambled to make his best friend happy. “We’ll spring you out of here. We’ll go get a hotel room, and go clubbing, and drinking, and…”  
Éponine laid a hand on Grantaire’s, effectively silencing him.  
Mustering her strength, she whispered, “Honey, I’m dying. Nothing you say is going to change that.”  
Grantaire turned his head away. Just because he understood the severity of the situation didn’t mean that he wanted to hear it. Éponine was his best friend. She’d been with him through his struggles with addiction, the mess that was his love life, and his father's abuse of him, just to name a few. In short, she’d been to hell and back with him. “Éponine, you’re my best friend. You brought me through so many of the hard times. I don’t know that I can…”  
Éponine pulled Grantaire closer to her. “Listen to me. The Amis and I have worked too hard for too long to get you to where you are today. You are not going to slump back into depression. You are going to gather the Amis, and you’re going to party for the both of us. I love you.” Having used all her strength, Éponine fell back into slumber.  
Trying to hold back the tears as much as he could, Grantaire murmured, “I love you, too,” before kissing her forehead, and taking his leave.

* * *

  
In the hotel room Combeferre had procured for him, Grantaire sat scribbling some lyrics he’d thought of around a sketch of Éponine. His phone sat within his periphery, in case.  
Some hours later, an annoying buzzing woke Grantaire. He peeled his face from the page of his sketchpad. He groggily answered the phone.  
“Aire, it’s over.”  
Combeferre’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking his words. Grantaire swallowed. “Okay. Thank you, Ferre. Do you need anything?”  
“I’m taking her home tomorrow. The funeral’s the day after. All I need is for you to call the Amis, and tell them. I’d like for them all to say a little something about her.”  
Grantaire sighed. “I will.”

* * *

  
Grantaire knew that he couldn’t handle having to call each of the Amis separately. Instead, he shot a text to Enjolras, asking him to call an emergency meeting, and Skype him.  
About an hour later, the Amis called. Grantaire futilely tried to hide his tears.  
Enjolras was the first to speak. “This is about Éponine, isn’t it?”  
Grantaire nodded, a sob escaping his lips. “She’s….she’s gone.” A collective gasp went up, but Grantaire held a hand up before anyone could say anything. “Ferre and Gavroche are bringing her home tomorrow. The service is the day after. He’d like you all to have something prepared to say about her.”  
No one said a word, until Jehan finally asked, “When are you coming home?”  
Grantaire looked at the clock. “I’m leaving tomorrow at eight. I’ll arrive home around nine.”  
Jehan nodded. “Be safe. We…we love you.”  
Grantaire bowed his head once to convey his gratitude, and then ended the call.

* * *

  
What would he write for Éponine? What words could possibly convey how much she’d meant to him? How much he’d loved her?  
His gaze fell on his sketchpad. The words looping around Éponine’s head. Grabbing his guitar, he set to writing.

* * *

  
The artist slowly walked off the train. He knew that home would never quite be the same without Éponine’s presence.  
He stepped onto the platform, and stopped short. He took a deep breath, willing his legs to carry him forward. He looked up and froze.  
The Amis stood waiting for him.  
The tears he been so carefully holding back spilled over, and Grantaire turned his head away.  
Suddenly, he felt a pair of arms encircling him.  
Grantaire opened his eyes, expecting Bossuet’s bald head, or Jehan’s flowery braid. Instead, he saw Enjolras’ blonde curls.  
Well, that was a surprise. Slowly, as if to make sure he was permitted, Grantaire looped his arms around the revolutionary.

* * *

  
The next day found all the Amis in black, in a sparsely populated church. Grimly, Grantaire thought of RENT.  
This musing was only reinforced by the short eulogies each Ami delivered.  
Bahorel spoke of her bravery. When the burly man had to be muscle at a protest gone awry, Éponine was there throwing punches with him.  
Feuilly spoke of the times she covered his shifts for him so that the poor man could get some sleep.  
Joly spoke of her compassion, and all the times that she had talked him through a panic attack.  
Bossuet talked about all the times she’d shown up to get him out of a sticky situation.  
Musichetta spoke of the woman who’d taken her in when her parents had disowned her for having two lovers.  
Cosette spoke of the unlikely friend, who had gone shopping with her, sang crappy pop songs with her, been there when she and Marius had broken up, and celebrated when they got back together.  
Marius spoke of the childhood friend who had beaten the bullies worse than they’d beaten him.  
Jehan wrote her a poem, describing her as a terrifying storm that showed mercy to only those whom she loved.  
Courfeyrac reminisced on his partner in crime, recounting the many pranks and parties they’d planned.  
Enjolras commended her work ethic, and how, between juggling her multiple jobs and raising her kid brother, she still found time to be a good friend.  
Combeferre talked about the love of his life. The mysterious girl, opposite him in so many ways, who had captured his heart.  
This left Grantaire. He slowly made his way to the front. He swallowed thickly. “Éponine was my best friend. She…she was there for me when no one else was. She was the best of us. She was our Queen. And so, I leave her with one last anthem.” He took a deep breath and began.  
“ **I was sipping on a whiskey when I got the call.**  
**Yeah, my friend Ép was lying in the hospital.**  
**She'd been pretty sick for about half a year,**  
**but it seems liked this time the end was drawing near.**  
**So dropped my plans and jumped the next London train.**  
**I found her laid up and in a lot of pain**.”  
Grantaire winced slightly at the pain visibly etched on everyone’s face.  
“ **Her eyes met mine and then I understood**  
**that her weather forecast wasn't looking too good.**  
**So I sat and spun her stories for a little while.**  
**Tried to raise her mood and tried to raise a smile,**  
**but she silenced all my rambling with a shake of her head,**  
**drew me close and listen this is what she said** ,”  
Grantaire took another deep breath before continuing.  
" **Now, you'll live to dance another day,**  
**it's just now you'll have to dance for the two of us.**  
**So stop looking so damn depressed**  
**and sing with all your heart that the Queen is dead**.”  
The tears they’d all been holding back spilled over, because hearing Grantaire saying that put the final nail in the coffin.  
“ **Yeah, she told me she was sick of all the hospital food**  
**and of doctors, distant relatives, draining her blood.**  
**She said ‘I know I'm dying, but I'm not finished just yet,**  
**yeah, I'm dying for a drink and for a cigarette.’**  
**So I hatched a plan to book ourselves a cheap hotel**  
**in the centre of the City and to raise some Hell.**  
**Lay waste to all the clubs and then when everyone else is long asleep**  
**then we’ll know we're good and done**.”  
Grantaire choked back a sob, and shakily continued.  
“ **‘You'll live to dance another day,**  
**it's just now you'll have to dance for the two of us,**  
**so stop looking so damn depressed**  
**and sing with all your heart that the Queen is dead.’**  
**And South London's not the same anymore**  
**The Queen is dead, and the last of the greats has finally gone to bed**.”  
The room was silent but for his voice.  
“ **Well I was working on some words when Ferre called me up.**  
**He said that Ép had gone to sleep and wasn't waking up.**  
**And even though I knew that there was nothing to be done**  
**I felt bad for not being there and now, well, she was gone.**  
**So I tried to think what Ép would want me to do**  
**at times like this when I was feeling blue.**  
**So I gathered up some friends to spread the sad, sad news**  
**and we headed to the City for a drink or two,**  
**and we sang…** ”  
Grantaire focused his gaze on the Amis.  
" **We live to dance another day,**  
**it's just now we have to dance for one more of us,**  
**so stop looking so damn depressed,**  
**and sing with all our hearts…** ”  
His voice broke, and a sob escaped. He couldn’t go on. His head bowed, and the tears fell onto the frets of his guitar.  
From the back, Grantaire heard the voice that had protested the monarchy so many times before sing quietly, “ **Long live the Queen**.”

* * *

  
Eventually, the pain lessened. Over time, les Amis were able to celebrate life again. They danced, they drank, they sang. However, there was one thing that time never changed.  
When they went out, they danced an extra dance, they drank an extra drink, and they sang an extra song for Éponine.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought! Please leave a comment or kudos. I'm sorry for breaking your heart.  
> Companion art can be found here: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/108758199979/the-queen-is-dead-graphite-on-paper-drawn-by


End file.
